Rising Tiger: A Thriller (31)

Very few people ever stopped to ask, “Is this story true? Is it propaganda? Am I being manipulated to serve someone else’s agenda?”

Rumors that exploited ethnic and religious hatreds seemed to animate mobs the fastest. It was a cultural weakness in India, especially in its body politic—and one that cynical Indian politicians did more to encourage than to discourage and dismantle. The easiest road to electoral power was also its most corrosive. More energized blocs could be built by telling voters what was wrong with their lives rather than what was right.

Instead of seeing each other as fellow countrymen and women, India’s citizens were walling themselves off, sorting themselves into silos based on party affiliation. They were banishing friends, neighbors, coworkers—even family members—from their lives, anyone who didn’t support the same political “team” that they did. Asha hated to see it.

Democracy wasn’t about how you were different, it was about how you were the same. It was about the rights and freedoms everyone enjoyed, and how everyone protected them.

Democracy was also about your responsibilities, your duties, as a citizen. When people began to see themselves as members of a subset first, it was a flashing red light—a warning that a nation’s democracy was in peril. Factionalism was the opposite of patriotism.

Asha had no idea who had started the rumor that sent the mob to Sergeant Siddiqui’s home, but it was someone with two key pieces of information.

One—that Siddiqui had been the flight mechanic who had signed off on the flight-worthiness of General Mehra’s helicopter. Two—that Sergeant Siddiqui was a Muslim.

In Hindu-majority India, it didn’t take much to spark religious violence. The same could be said for Muslim-majority Bangladesh next door. Oftentimes violence against the Muslim minority in India sparked violence against the Hindu minority in Bangladesh. It was a vicious cycle.

The mere suggestion that Sergeant Siddiqui, a Muslim, might have sabotaged a helicopter carrying General Mehra, a Hindu, was all it took to light the fuse. Arriving on the scene, Asha could see plenty of potential “accelerant.”

The crowd was made up of about seventy-five angry people and was growing. Police had arrived but were hanging back. It was reprehensible.

Identifying the commander, a fat and obviously lazy cop, leaning against his patrol vehicle with a baton under his arm and a lit cigarette in his mouth, she approached him and said, “Do something.”

“Excuse me, ma’am?” the officer said, taken aback.

“You heard me. Do something.”

“Ma’am, the Rapid Reaction Force has been alerted. We are not equipped to deal with mob actions.”

Asha glanced at the front seat of his cruiser, where an array of crowd control devices had been stacked. “What’s all of that, then?”

“That’s for our protection. If the need arises.”

“Your protection?” she shot back. “What about protection of the Siddiqui family and their home?”

“Ma’am, you are interfering with my ability to do my job. Please step back.”

“As far as I can see, you’re not doing anything.”

“We are monitoring the situation, ma’am,” the officer replied.

“That’s not good enough,” said Asha. “Sergeant Siddiqui is a member of India’s armed forces.”

One of the other cops standing nearby said derisively in Hindi, “He’s also a Muslim.”

It was an unprofessional slur and should have immediately been rebuked by the commander, and the offending officer reprimanded. Instead, the lead officer continued to lean on his cruiser, smoking.

“Our troops work around the clock to keep you and your families safe, regardless of religion. You owe them the same respect and obligation in return,” she stated.

The commander looked at her, took a deep drag from his cigarette, and held it for a moment before exhaling. Dropping the butt to the ground, he crushed it out with his boot and then motioned for his men to follow him.

Asha watched, expecting them to start breaking things up and pushing people back, away from the Siddiquis’ home. That wasn’t what happened.

The cops walked over to another cruiser, where the fat commander struck the same, lazy pose and lit another cigarette. The message being sent to the crowd was obvious—we’re not here to do anything.

Asha had only a handful of options—none of them good. She had promised the flight mechanic that she would protect his family. Right now, however, she couldn’t even make it to the front door.

Complicating matters was the lack of action by the police. The mob would only grow angrier and more emboldened. Some in the crowd were already throwing rocks at the house, which caused Asha even more concern.

The most common trigger, worldwide, that tripped an angry mob into violence was the sound of breaking glass. It was like a starting gun that opened a destructive and potentially deadly set of floodgates.

When one of the rock throwers in the street succeeded in shattering an upstairs window, Asha knew she had run out of time. She had to act.

Opening the passenger-side door of the cruiser, she grabbed a 40mm launcher, slung a bandolier studded with less-lethal munitions, and headed toward the crowd.

Before the cops even realized what was going on, she had loaded the four-shot launcher and had taken aim at the mob.